PSOH Band Ficlets Round II 'The Police'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU. Leon isn't jealous or anything-D's a guy, for chrissake!-but there's an awful lot of extraneous people messing around the Shop when it's his territory, and it's starting to get annoying. Really annoying.


**PSOH Band Fics Round II 'The Police' **

"What are _you_ doing here, Chief?"

Leon was more than a little PO'd, but he tried to hide the worst of it, mainly 'cause the Chief would chew his head off later, in private, if he dared start a dust-up at the Count's Pet Shop. Leon's boss was a very scary man, _these_ days. He wasn't taking shit from nobody, no how.

"The Count was kind enough to invite me to stay for tea, Orcot," the Chief answered shortly, bridling. He snorted and narrowed his brown eyes alarmingly at Leon, assessing him. "And, since you've brought it up, what are _you_ doing here? That Scheller case cleaned up yet?"

"Ah…um," Leon swallowed and waved his hands. He shrugged. "Well…I was going to ask the Count here a few questions, since the lady had a little doggie." He tried to look official; not an easy task when your usual 'uniform' was raggedy old jeans and an overwashed t-shirt.

"The dog's fine, Orcot," his boss snapped. "And a little bird tells me your better half took care of that yesterday, _so_—"

"_My better half_?" Leon roared, with a quick glance in D's direction, and then shut up abruptly when he noticed the arctic look coagulating on the Chief's face.

The Count meanwhile gazed silently at the two of them, his face carefully blank, and offered his dear detective absolutely no help.

Leon gulped again and thought fast. Damn, but the Chief was one testy MF since his wife had up and left him! Like a bear with a sore paw! And he sure as shit shouldn't be _here_, in D's Shop, cuddling up to Count D all cozy like that!

"…Ah, yeah," he mumbled, sadly deciding that maybe being conciliatory was better than venting his perfectly understandable ire. For now. "Jill did check out the veterinarian references and stuff, but there's still some questions I need to ask the Count here—"

"Orcot," the Chief began, in a 'this does not bode well for _you_, soldier' tone, and Leon could tell he was on his last nerve and had been ever since Leon, all unknowing, strolled through the Pet Shop door two minutes ago.

"Chief, look—" Leon plastered his most sincere expression on his face, blinked his big blues and calculated quickly, trying to come up with something—anything—to throw his superior off the scent. The Scheller case in no way needed the Count's expertise and Leon knew it for damned sure, but still, he was even more damned if he'd let his boss horn in on _his_ personal informant on all things animal-related. That kind of thing just wasn't done. It wasn't kosher, or right, or acceptable in any sense of the word. Everybody, but _everybody_, in the precinct ought to know by now they had to go through Leon first if they wanted to ask the Count something—even the Chief.

It pissed him off enough already when Jill did it andshe was okay. The Count was kind of pally with her, true, and always made much of her whenever she stopped by, but she wasn't a threat to Leon's territory or anything. She, at least, understood that Leon's relationship with the owner of this particular Chinese pet shop was a special one, based on months of carefully built-up trust, and that the Count's expertise was not something Leon was going to share with just _anybody_. Leon's boss, in short, had absolutely no business being here in Leon's Pet Shop, lapping up the Count's Oolong. That was Leon's Oolong, damn it!

Leon would've liked to point that out, yeah, he would, but he wasn't entirely brain-dead. He wanted to live, too.

"You see, it's like this, Chief—" he started, hoping to head the Chief off at the pass and maybe even get rid of him, for good measure.

"I don't believe there's any questions left on Scheller that require the advice of our star animal expert, Orcot," his boss cut him abruptly short mid-sentence, and was snippy about it. The man's teacup clinked sharply when it hit his saucer and the Count barely hid a pained wince. Leon scowled on his behalf. "But I do know for a fact there _are_ one hell of a lot of other angles – pardon my French, Count – that you and your partner should be out exploring right this minute, not to mention going over everything you have already with a fine-tooth comb. Time is, as they say, of the essence! In fact, I'm going to say you don't have a lot of spare time available to be out on these personal visits—do you, Detective?"

"Ah, um," Leon said and took a good, hard look at the older man seated on the Count's chintz-covered sofa. "Well…y'see, it's like this."

Leon stopped when Count D quirked his eyebrows at him; just the slightest twitch, in warning. Leon's bosses' face had darkened to an ugly shade and his round cheeks had swelled to twice their normal size, both ominous signs that Leon and the other homicide detectives in his precinct had learnt recently meant their normally sane commander was about to blow a major gasket.

Chief was blowing gaskets regularly, nowadays. He also wasn't sleeping properly, eating the healthy salads his long-suffering wife had used to pack for him, or cutting back on the caffeine like Leon knew for sure his doctor said he had to do for his escalating blood pressure. And suddenly it seemed like his boss never, ever actually left the Precinct office, stomping around down there at all hours and popping up suddenly to tear strips off innocent officers he claimed were shirking. Leon felt kind of sorry for him, usually, what with his wife and all, and being stuck with two teenage daughters, but he sure as shit didn't feel sorry right now. Right now, the Chief was seriously overstepping his boundaries, but it was more than Leon's job was worth to actually say that out loud. Hell, Chief'd probably bust him down to a street beat just for looking funny!

"Ok, I got it, Chief, alright? I'm outta here, okay?" a flustered detective replied, backing carefully toward the door. Nope, he wasn't stupid, not him. Rule One in the department was to _not_ let the Chief get to this point. Under_ any_ circumstances. He'd save his reasonable rant for later—maybe grab a beer with Jill or something and have a hissy fit privately. 'Cause, and he might as well face it, there just wasn't a damned thing he could do until the Chief got his personal life back under control.

"_Well_, Orcot?"

Leon's boss glared at him. He was practically puffing up like one of the Count's poisonous Japanese blowfish with impatient anger and Leon thought maybe that was real steam curling up from his reddened ears. The Count, of course, was his utterly impassive self, blandly observing the proceedings with a faint smile on his too-pretty-for-a-normal-regular guy face.

"On my way, see? Yeah? Alright? Hey, Count—" Geez, give a man a chance to say goodbye to the person he'd come to see, at least! Leon was thinking, when the whip-crack of his boss's voice shattered the pregnant little pause.

"Orcot!"

"Okay! Right, Boss!"

Rule Two was to bolt immediately if the Chief did actually explode. It was pretty much suicide if one didn't: desk-duty on third shift in either Morgue or Traffic for days on end, and that was if one was lucky. One detective Leon knew had already asked for a temporary transfer to another Precinct, even though it added a full hour to his commute every day. Not blaming the guy in the least, Leon immediately executed Rule Two and skedaddled for the door, swallowing back his own pissiness as the better part of valour.

"Going! I'm gone, already, Chief! Can't see me for the dust! See ya' later, Count!" Leon called out, just before he shut the Pet Shop door behind him, leaving him on the wrong side for once. "Hey, Count! Miss me, okay?"

Leon caught a glimpse of the Count's eyes widening at his weird-but-meant-to be-all in good fun over-the-shoulder order, but the imperturbable man said not a thing other than a cordial, "Do take care, Detective!", as the Pet Shop door slammed in the wake of Leon's hurried passing.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" Leon bitched. "Goddamnit all to hell!"

Hurrying down the street to get his old banger out the No Parking Zone, Leon muttered to himself and felt really funny—queasy-like—having just said that oddball thing to the Count, but he'd kind of meant it, too. The Count should miss him, shouldn't he? They saw each other often enough they counted as real friends now, right? _Way_ more than Jill or his boss did. They'd never really be the Count's friends, Leon decided spitefully, even if they dropped by a million times over.

Then the detective tried not to think of what he might have actually meant by telling D to miss him. Or why it made him so angry to see the Chief sitting _his_ cushion of the sofa. Or why he was really glad the Count hadn't kicked up a fuss about the whole thing, which he could very well have done, given his temper. It was all just too weird and sort of embarrassing, for words—yeah.

Leon was still angry two days later. He liked discussing with D some of the whack-job cases that came across his desk; looked forward to it, even. 'Cause even if the Count was a certifiable Looney-Tune when it came to the whole 'talking to the animals' business, he still had a brain that was logical, insightful and concise. Leon needed to be able to talk things over with a guy like that sometimes, when cases (like the Scheller one) got a little too emotional for his straight-forward, fact-finding brain to handle. The Count was an invaluable resource for him—a real think-tank, that was it—and here he was, being _denied_.

Of course, the very next day he and Jill had a huge breakthrough when the plumber confessed to murdering five people with his pipe wrench, so the Scheller case was no longer a problem. Leon sauntered down the Shop when his shift ended, ready to share the good news, but Jill was already there before him and from the looks of it, she wasn't budging.

Leon grunted into his disgustingly dainty-and-floral teacup, displaced as he was to the opposite end of the couch from where he usually sat, and made sure to sigh and hum with great exaggeration, tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch loudly. He chewed his scone with his mouth open, and smoked cigarette after cigarette, and made sure to ask the Count for a refill on his tea at least three separate times in fifteen minutes. All in all, he managed to sit through a full half-hour of what he considered to be an extremely 'girly'—if not outright 'gay'— discussion of fall fashion and cutting edge home decor, sulking mightily all the while, till at last he couldn't stand to hear the words 'teal' and 'chocolate' and 'credenza' one more time in a single afternoon and abruptly stood to depart.

"Leaving already, Detective?" The Count's pencil-thin dark eyebrows arrowed up in patent surprise.

"Damn straight!" Leon huffed. "Look—call me when you actually want to have a _real _conversation, Count D. You and Jill here can wallow as much as you want in all this crap without me in the way to bother you!"

"Leon! That's so rude!" Jill exclaimed, sitting up abruptly, her eyes sparkling. "The Count and I are just discussing the Pantene colors. It's interesting from a psychological sense what people like and why it changes every year or so, okay? You don't have to throw a frigging fit over it, you stupid Neanderthal!" she protested, but both D and Leon caught the glint of barely disguised delight in her eyes.

The woman loved a good argument. She'd been known to pick them with Leon hourly if she got bored with a case—or if he pushed her a little too hard, being what she called a 'total prick' when Leon could've assured her he was actually just being a 'regular guy'. That kind of thing happened a lot mid-month, but usually Leon didn't let it bother him. Jill was cool, mostly, and she was one of the best damned cops he'd ever met. And she understood about the Count, and didn't tease him too much.

Yeah, that still didn't excuse her muscling into D's parlour when Leon hadn't had the chance to do that exact same thing in what felt like weeks.

"Well, come _on_, you guys!" Leon folded his arms and looked stern, though he was actually picking up the gauntlet Jill had thrown down and slapping it, mentally. "Get a grip, okay? Normal people don't waste that much time talking about the color of their drapes or whether they look alright in ruffles. They just go and buy whatever the media tells 'em to, okay? That's kind of it—all there is to it, you know? So, I don't see what the fuss is about. Nobody cares," Leon whined. "Especially not me."

"Talk about immature, huh?" Jill said in a loud aside to the Count, smirking and jerking Leon's chain just a little more. "Leon's such a baby, isn't he? Always demanding attention."

Leon's sense of being somehow wronged by the world at large returned full force. First the Chief taking up all the Count's attention and now Jill – it wasn't fucking _fair_! He was being gypped of what was rightfully his, here, and nobody gave a shit!

"Hey! Come on, you don't have to be nasty about it! Face it, woman, that sh-stuff's _boring!_ Who the fu-_hell_ cares what color some fancypants model's going to be trotting down the runway in next spring? Who the hell gives a load of crap about what kind of chair she's sitting on? D's going to keel over if you keep it up, Jill—I'm just saying. He's a guy, despite those dresses he wears. Just talk about something other than clothes and furniture, ok? Something a guy can talk about?"

The Count smiled, and Leon gave himself a mental high-five. Hah! Score one for the Orcot!

"Guys can't talk about colors, Leon?" Jill visibly girded her mental loins, clearly happy to keep it going with a nice, refreshing bout of in-fighting between partners. The Count continued to smile—in his usual superior way, but gradually Leon noticed he didn't seem as amused by their little cat-and-dog act as he usually was. Leon's antennae went up, sensing danger.

"Uh, Jill…"

"But I guess _you_ can't, since _you_ always wear the same damn thing anyway, you goon," Jill sneered, apparently not sensing anything at all, other than a good time to be had.

"Shit!" Leon nearly stomped his foot, he was so annoyed. His tea slopped out of his cup and dribbled down his arm. He'd have to leave, or D would blame him for this later, even if it wasn't his actual damned fault! "Look, Jill, this gets us nowhere and I, for one, am sick and tired of being told off all the time in this same damned Pet Shop, every single frigging time I set foot in here—!"

"Detective…" The Count frowned and Leon instantly knew he was in hot water again, jeezus!—and despite all his good intentions of cooling it. Evidently, judging by the Count's glare, _he_ was the one in the way here, not Jill. The knowledge made him even madder, and piled itself atop of his existing pissiness in a precarious towering lump of total discontent and foul temper.

"Fine!" he burst out. "I'm going, already! But don't say I didn't warn you, D, when find yourself up at two a.m. some night, screwing some damned piece of shit Swedish bookshelf together with a fucking nail file—or at Sears, _D_, pawing through women's underwear, trying to find a size twenty-two high-cut brief thingy in powder blue sateen!"

The detective slammed himself out of the Shop in a total snit and it wasn't till he was a good two blocks away that it struck him D might've just gotten the wrong idea about he and Jill.

"Shit!" he spat out suddenly, startling a passing woman and her little frou-frou dog. "Shit, shit, shit!" he went on muttering, all the way down the block to where he'd parked his car, in the Tow Away Zone. "God fucking damn it! Why the hell did I hafta' go and say _that _for?"

But it was far too late to go back and set matters straight, Leon realized. He'd look like a damned fool apologizing to D in front of his partner, not to mention looking like a damned fool for ranting about women's lingerie in the first place, and that just wasn't something Leon thought he was ready to sign up for.

The next time, then. He'd just quietly and casually explain to the Count that he'd only been in the Ladies' Undergarments section of Sears 'cause Jill had dragooned him into carrying her packages and then only because she was there to buy her dear old mother some new PJs for Christmas and had gotten distracted. _Not _because he and Jill had a 'thing' going on outside work. No way, no how. They were partners, for Chrissake, so of course they got along, but it wasn't anything the Count should be wondering about!

Jeez! People got along all the time and it didn't mean they were sleeping together or anything!

Leon told himself that until he remembered that he and D 'got along', too, and he often carried packages for D when they went shopping, but that was somehow totally different. Completely, utterly not the same, at all. Though he'd be hard pressed to explain _why_.

But the next day, when Leon went back to face the music, the Shop was closed. D was probably out shopping (he did that entirely too often, in Leon's opinion) and even though Leon waited for a good half-hour, kicking dead leaves aimlessly around on the steps leading down to the Shop and smoking far too many cigarettes, the asshole didn't show. The detective went on home, annoyed again, and sulked instead.

Three days slipped by before he had a chance to drop by again and this time it was two guys from the next Precinct over taking up space in D's parlor. Leon fumed and huffed but he couldn't say a damned thing against it, not with any real validity; he knew about the case they were on from hints his surly boss had dropped earlier in the week and he knew, too, that the Count's incredible knowledge of animal behavior was going to be essential to solving it. Not much he could do, then, without coming across as a total asswipe. Leon resigned himself to waiting them out, but then his phone rang and it was Jill and he had to go back the station in a hurry 'cause there was a breakthrough in the case _they_ were working on.

On Sunday, the detective got up well before he usually did, grabbed a shower and picked out some halfway decent clothes. He was bound and determined to see the Count, _alone and uninterrupted_, come hell or high water, and so he set off bright and early at ten o'clock, stopping by the Spanish bakery on the way to pick up the empanadas and sweet rolls he knew for a factimundo D liked.

Surely, _nobody_ from the L.A. police force, uniformed or _not_, emergency or _not_, would have the guts to bother the Count on a Sunday morning.

"You're here _again_?" the Chief demanded from his seat on the couch – _Leon's_ spot – glaring daggers at his subordinate as he balanced his plateful of warmed sticky bun and his cup of Oolong on his Sunday-suited knees. A box from the inferior bakery that D didn't fancy sat open on the tea table. Only one pastry was missing and the Chief was in firm possession of it, despite his rapidly expanding waistline.

"Don't you _ever_ give this poor man a break, Detective?" Leon's boss wanted to know, right off the bat. "He's been working his poor fingers to the bone, helping us, and you seem to think you can just stop by and bother him whenever you damn well feel like it? Well, _I _won't put up with this crap, Orcot!"

"My dear sir, you misunderstand—" the Count interjected, but the angry Chief paid no mind to the sweet sound of reason. He flushed, his face settling into lines of severe disapproval.

"What's there to 'misunderstand', Count? I swear, Orcot's been in your face _every single_—"

"Chief! I have not!" Leon cried out, desperately, remembering Rule No. #1.

"—_day_, which is _strictly_ against Code 983, 'harassing an informant,' and—"

"—the _hell_!" Leon huffed, visions of having his badge forcibly removed by an irate Chief dancing before his startled eyes.

"—the Detective is here by my _express_ invitation, Chief!" This time the voice of reason was authoritative and quite clear, ringing in the sudden silence. "You understand, I'm sure," he finished up quietly, and took a sip of his tea.

"_What?_"

"_W-what?"_

Two pairs of eyes, both shocked, one set still red-veined with rage, the other a blinding, brilliant blue engendered by sheer amazed relief, swiveled toward the Count. Two jaws became unhinged.

D smiled, poised and elegant in the face of gaping uproar.

"Quite so, Chief. I invited Detective Orcot to visit. I've a little mystery of my own I require help with—nothing major; please don't concern yourself—and as Officer Orcot here is always _such_ a gentleman and _so_ dedicated to his vocation, I thought I'd ask his learned advice…if that's not against the rules, Chief? I'm not taking him away from his duties, am I?"

D batted his long black lashes and practically purred the last two questions. A still open-mouthed Leon watched the Chief melt, getting all sticky, just like his honeybun.

"Oh, no, Count! That's just fine – of course you may!" The Chief was falling all over himself to backpedal. "But if it's 'learned advice' you want, I assure you, I'll do a much better job than—"

"No, please, Chief," the Count waved him off prettily. "It's just a small thing, really. I wouldn't want to distract you from your important meeting later with your soon-to-reconciled wife, would I? So much the better for you to just focus on _that_." The Count smiled in his feline way, his white lids drooping over jewels of amethyst and gold. "Do you not agree?"

The Chief blinked slowly, several times, transfixed. Leon held his breath, waiting, still as statue, as D's patented stare did its magic.

"…Ah, yes, yes. I suppose you're right, Count." The older man leaned forward suddenly and put his cup and plate down on the laden table with a sigh, glancing at his watch face in passing.

"Oh, the time! I'd best be on my way, Count. My wife'll be waiting."

"Indeed. I wish you the best, Chief. I'm sure it will be alright." The Count smiled meaningfully at the spiffed-up police chief. Leon sidled sideways unobtrusively, giving the Chief plenty of room to pass, keeping his head down so that his boss wouldn't notice him again and offer to stay at the Shop in his place, god forbid.

The Count rose to his daintily slippered feet, long fingers smoothing the fabric of his cheongsam down his narrow loins, a beguiling distraction in formfitting silk white as the purest snow, and promptly escorted the Chief to the door, chatting smoothly of nothing in particular. The Chief nodded and smiled as he was ushered on his way, reminding Leon of a delusional brown sheep.

_Flirting_, Leon thought, with an internal snort of laughter at the Count's antics. _God, but D's so good at that!_ _Hah! Gotcha, Boss Man!_

He stopped laughing immediately….well, it _would've_ been funny, the way D had the Chief wrapped 'round his polished pinky, but it irked the detective in some fashion he didn't care to examine too closely. Made him feel…uncomfortable. Prickly-like.

"Alone, at last, Detective!"

The Count turned from closing the door behind Leon's departing boss and smiled triumphantly—mockingly, really, for one thin, dark brow was arched in what Leon decided was probably derision. Or superiority. With D, it was sometimes hard to tell the difference.

"What d'ya mean by _that_?" he demanded, curious and still faintly irritable, and quickly claimed his usual corner of the couch before anyone else appeared to do so, snagging a clean tea cup along the way. D filled that gracefully, as he, too, returned to his usual chair.

"…Not a thing, Detective," D smiled secretively. "No matter. Tell me, are those empanadas in that little bag you're carrying, by any chance?"

"Yeah. Um—here, help yourself." Leon didn't mention that he'd hiked four blocks out of his way to get them, but then he figured D ought to know. They'd been together— on a Sunday, just like this one—when D first located the tiny hole-in-the-wall Hispanic bakery one of his clients had told him of, raving over its authentic sweets. D had been addicted to the empanadas ever since. He liked the churros, too, so Leon had gotten a few of those.

"Hmm! Delicious!"

The Count's expression reflected the oral ecstasy his mouthful of buttery cinnamon-and-sugar had instantly produced. Leon, sipping tea, choked a little and forgot entirely that he was supposed to be on the defensive, watching the Count carefully for any signs of deceit or annoyance.

"…You like?" The detective grinned happily. Score two for the Orcot!

"_Mm_, indeed, my dearest detective. _Always_."

The Count dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and took a sip of his tea. After swallowing, he looked up and pinned Leon to the couch with twinned spears of gold and purest violet.

"Now, I must apologize, I believe." Leon's eyes jerked back to his cup, now that the Count was addressing him conversationally, with his odd eyes open and sharp instead of closed in delighted appreciation of the pastries. He'd just been happily noticing the length of the Count's eyelashes, though he told himself firmly he hadn't been, really. They were just kind of long, for a man. It was weird.

"Huh? Why?"

"I feel that I may have frustrated you, Detective—"

_Hah!_ Leon thought. _If only—_

"—as you've stopped by the Shop so often recently, only to find me unavailable or otherwise occupied," D continued, his eyes cast down again, apparently caught in fascination by the lace-edged napkin on his lap. Because it couldn't be that Count D was shy or anything, Leon decided. Oh, no. And as to the 'frustrated' bit—

_If only you knew!_

Leon grimaced at the irksome memories of all those half-assed people who'd taken up D's spare time, leaving him squarely out in the cold.

_Damned police!_

"So, if I may, and if you are agreeable, of course, perhaps I might trouble you to stay for supper?" The odd eyes were strangely shy now, peeping up from the heap of discarded linen. Leon gulped. Oh, yeah—they really were long, like fans waving. Or a black silk fringe. Something fragile—Jill would know how to describe them the right way; Leon just knew they were pretty.

"_Yeah!_ I m-mean, sure! I'd love to—!" Leon leaned forward in his excitement, causing his cup to slosh precariously. Then he caught his breath, a very faint blush of color tinting his ears, righted his cup and remembered to act _cool._ Frosty, even. Guys didn't get excited over other guys inviting them to dinner. Right?

"Um, yeah. Sure. Why not? I've got nothin' better to do this evening." He slouched on the couch, just to show off the fact that he really didn't give a crap, one way or the other.

"Oh? Well, excellent, Detective. I'm glad you've accepted my invitation."

D, too, had more color in his pale face than he'd had a moment ago, but he—unlike Leon— was the master of 'cool' and affected not to notice the air of burbling anticipation that floated in a sparkly, nearly visible cloud between the two of them.

"Perhaps seven, then?" D suggested, examining the curtains with a critical eye.

Without warning, gold and royal purple suddenly pinned Leon to the proverbial wall again and the detective could only nod in the affirmative, shifting his eyes defensively to focus on the slight indentation in D's well-shaped chin. A small, charged silence descended and D poured them both more tea, grasping Leon's wrist with great casualness to hold it steady after a moment of his cup rattling noisily in the saucer. Leon gulped, audibly. A pulse throbbed to roaring life under the tips of D's fingernails. The Count released Leon abruptly, as if he'd been burnt.

"Nobody else, right?" Leon asked fiercely, after the Count had topped up his own cooling cup. He knew he was being a little too forceful in his question, even rude, but he couldn't help it. D's face flushed a shade pinker and he kept his own eyes on his own hands as he lowered the teapot safely to the table.

"Just me?" Leon asked again, fidgeting.

"…Yes, my dear detective," the Count replied, after a tiny pause. "Just you."

"Good."

The detective sat back after yet another pregnant pause, making a big deal out of toeing off his unlaced sneakers, and obviously settling himself in for the duration. He reached for the Sunday paper that D always had available for him, his eyes sliding casually away from the veiled amusement in D's.

"So, what're we going to do till seven, huh?" Leon asked after a long minute, his tone nice and casual, nose buried in the Sports pages. D quirked red lips around the edge of his second empanada, and shook his head slightly, his eyes glittering.

"No idea, Leon," he replied, after he'd swallowed. "How do we usually amuse ourselves on Sundays?"

"You wanna go out or something?" Leon's muffled voice couldn't get any more disinterested. D smiled in yet another variation of pleasurable amusement and swallowed the last bite of his second pastry with unfeigned delight. He knew the whole drill, right down to the moment when his dear detective would present him with yet another interesting and exciting way to spend the day together, and he would agree, quite happily enough.

"Hmm, that does sound lovely, Detective. A little excursion into the fresh air would do me a wonder of good, no doubt. Perhaps the shops, then?" D teased. "I really do need to restock my pantry."

"Yeah, whatever….." Leon answered, apparently only barely paying attention, though his ears still burned a brilliant hue, "…except I was actually thinking somewhere more, um, _fun_."

"Fun? But shopping is very enjoyable, Detective," D smiled slyly. He stood up, taking his soiled teacup with him. "I'll just get my list, then." His face was a careful study in concealed laughter.

"Okay, yeah; if you want," Leon answered, his eyes glued to the newsprint an inch from his nose. "Later. Bring along your umbrella-thingy, though, 'cause we're going to the Zoo first. We'll probably be out for a while."

"Really? Why there, so soon again? We were just there last month, Leon." D glanced over from the doorway to the kitchen, curious. "Is there something I should know about?"

"Pandas. Giant ones—direct from D.C."

Leon grinned full out, his face still buried in the paper, but his tone was as prideful and victorious as if he'd personally arranged the historic visit all by his lonesome—and piloted the plane that brought them here. Of course, he'd had to wait hours and hours in line just to get the tickets, but hey—what the hell – D would probably _really_ want to see the famed Washington D.C. visitors to the San Diego Zoo, if he knew they were in town. Besides, Leon figured it was well worth the effort expended to keep his best source of animal behavior – and other assorted oddities – sweet on him. An 'investment', kind of. Yeah, one could look at it just like that, Leon decided, firmly resettling his mental blinkers.

He stared at the comics section, not taking a single one-liner in.

"_Pandas_!" D squealed, all his usual panache gone in an instant. He nearly dropped his cup, he was so surprised—and _pleased_. Oh, very pleased. "I haven't seen pandas in the flesh for so very long a time! Oh, Leon, by all that's wonderful! Why did you not mention this sooner?"

"Surprise," Leon answered gruffly, a silly grin on his half-obscured face. "Better than the empanadas, huh, D?" _Or those stupid store-bought sticky buns Chief brought_, his ego added—silently, of course.

"Oh, yes, Detective – well," the Count tapped his chin with a forefinger, contemplating, "really, I must say I enjoy both. Thank you again, kind sir, for thinking of me. You are a consummate gentleman."

"N-not a problem, D," Leon stammered, completely red-faced and totally embarrassed. He rustled the newspaper, ducking back behind it. "G-gotta do something with my day off, right?" he went on, trying to play the whole thing down. Guys _didn't_ get excited when other guys went places with them—even if the other guys were really happy about it. Right! "Might as well include you in, yeah?"

"Still…my sincere thanks, Leon. It is most kind of you to 'include me in'" D smiled sweetly. "If you'll give me just a moment to prepare?"

"Yeah! Sure! Whatever—take all the time you need!" Leon barked, and hurriedly cast the paper aside, scrabbling for his sneakers under the couch, so he could put them on again. Plus, staring at his shoes made it harder for the Count to see just how flushed and sweaty he was—he hoped, sincerely.

"Thank you again, Leon," D said softly. Leon harrumphed and dropped his one sneaker, accidently knocking it under the couch. He scrambled after it, hunched over defensively, and felt a moment's unhappy empathy with Chief, of the steaming ears.

The Count had already turned away, for this time it was his face that flamed. He sighed at the flutter in his chest as he pushed through the swinging doors that led to his kitchen and threw a shy smile over his shoulder at the red-faced and panting detective as they rocked shut. He grinned all the more merrily when he caught a quick glimpse of the boyishly amazed expression Leon could no longer conceal.

Silly man was practically drooling on his shoelaces, his mouth was so wide-stretched.

Once in the safety of his kitchen, the Count—the unflappable Count D—actually twirled on his toes, silks swishing. And then snorted in derision at his own playfulness and increasingly odd behaviour.

Leon Orcot did affect him; that could not be denied. Which was a little worrisome, perhaps…but then again, life was not all pain and tears.

"And, really—I do enjoy it all, my dear detective," the Count admitted aloud, unashamed, "so very much—and you've no idea at all, do you? Silly, silly man," he murmured softly to his snatched-up grocery list, his normally alabaster skin flushed a becoming rose. He pressed the mundane paper to his chest in a little flurry of excess emotion, his blood effervescent with the pleasure Leon always seemed to bring with him when he stumbled into D's Shop, rain or shine.

"Foolish man—and foolish me!" D informed the refrigerator, still all wreathed in smiles. Pandas! And empanadas… and company to look forward to, all day.

The Detective was rather like a drug, D decided, turning back to re-enter his parlour—opium, perhaps. Blood of the poppy. Once one had a taste of it, one always craved more.

It was fortunate, indeed, D was certain, that he'd a very high tolerance—for pleasure.

END


End file.
